By Conrad Pierce
Going nowhere fast, pull up the drawstring and raise up the mast. In a time machine going to the past, rewind it all if only we had asked. Numbers pulled and tags now lifted, waiting for them to grab ours- will there be mourners or will there be flowers? Time and God can tell but we're not doing so well to know, better we should but through the filth we go dust covered filters our minds always blow. Wishes wanting to materialize, unachievable is the only thing we seem to realize- minute details our only prize within this life our small surprise. Along with the mental effervescence life goes on as another year dies.
